


Some Kind of Carol

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Holiday Fic Exchange, I know, This is ridiculous, kastlechristmas2k20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28307286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: “Who are you?” said Frank.The man sighed. “Call me the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future. Mostly because I could tell you my real name, but then there’d be the back and the forth and you’d probably try to track me down afterward and I’m frankly too busy protecting this world than to deal with you.”“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Frank. He lowered his gun a fraction of an inch. “You’re not—”“Come on,” said the man, raising his hand.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 19
Kudos: 119
Collections: kastlechristmas2k20





	Some Kind of Carol

He might not have known it was Christmas Eve, if not for three things:

First, there was wreath hanging from his neighbor’s apartment door. It had been crafted of circles of green paper, probably from a kindergarten class. The poinsettias were cut sloppily out of red paper and there was a smattering of glitter thrown upon the whole thing.

Second, when he browsed through radio channels, all he got were goddamn carols.

And thirdly, when Frank Castle opened his apartment door he found a man he didn’t recognize wearing a red cloak.

There was a gun in Frank’s hand faster than the intruder could draw a breath. The barrel swung up and Frank sighted down it with practiced ease. “Picked the wrong chimney to come down, Santa,” said Frank, his voice low. After several weeks of tangling with some Swedish organized crime assholes, his trigger finger was a little sore—but not so much that he couldn’t deal with some holiday-themed hitman.

The man turned. He had rather narrow features and dark hair. The cloak swung with him, billowing out like there was a breeze. Which there decidedly wasn’t.

“Ah,” said the man. “I see the confusion. Cloak and all. But I prefer inter-dimensional doorways to chimneys.”

“What?” Frank didn’t relax. Maybe this guy was just insane; maybe he was a threat. But Frank wasn’t lowering his weapon until he figured out which.

“I’m here,” said the man, “because I owe someone a favor. And to be quite honest, it was either this or watch It’s a Wonderful Life with Wong and I can’t do that again.” He took a step forward. “I picked this.”

“Who are you?” said Frank.

The man sighed. “Call me the ghost of Christmas past, present, and future. Mostly because I could tell you my real name, but then there’d be the back and the forth and you’d probably try to track me down afterward and I’m frankly too busy protecting this world than to deal with you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Frank. He lowered his gun a fraction of an inch. “You’re not—”

“Come on,” said the man, raising his hand. He swirled his gloved fingers in a complicated little gesture, and then the world fell out from under them both.

Frank slammed into pavement.

Cold pavement.

He scrambled to his feet, cursing. His gun was gone. So was his backup weapon. And he was freezing—he’d his gloves and hat in the truck before trudging up to his apartment.

“All right,” said the man. “Come along now.”

Frank glared at the man. “Are you some kind of holiday wizard?”

“Sort of,” said the Cloak Man. "I mean, I’m not holiday-themed. I’m just avoiding movie night and all. And I hate owing favors. So let’s go.” He strode up the sidewalk, his cloak gracefully swaying around him. Frank brushed some old snow off his jeans, then followed. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice; he knew enough of the vigilantes of New York to know that his best chance was to wait. He was unarmed, cold, and Mr. Cloak could teleport. Those weren’t great odds. And if this were a hallucination, he might as well follow.

Frank’s gaze roamed across the neighborhood, hoping that perhaps someone had left out a snow shovel or perhaps—

All of the breath left him. It was like being punched in the solar plexus, seeing the house in front of him.

It was—

It was his house. Before he’d torched it, before it was gone.

That couldn’t be; it just fucking couldn’t. His house was gone, he was—

He was in the driveway, following Mr. Cloak to the front window. The curtains had been left open and a colorful glow spilled out across the pristine snow. Frank’s feet made no indentations, he realized. But that wasn’t the weirdest thing, not even close. He leaned closer to the window and everything in him went utterly still.

Because Lisa was in there. Lisa and Frankie, sitting beside the tree. It was a tree he recognized, because it had no real top. Frank had needed to stand on a chair to balance the star topper on a particularly sturdy nearby branch.

“That can’t,” he breathed. “This can’t...” He looked at Mr. Cloak. “Is this…?”

“Your past,” said Mr. Cloak. “You can’t talk to them, I’m afraid.”

Frank leaned closer to the window. Pain clawed at his insides, curled around his ribs, but he couldn’t stop looking. He drank in the sight before him, trying to memorize every detail. He remembered this holiday. He’d come home only four days before, jet lagged and exhausted, to find Lisa trying to use a cookbook to bake her own cookies. She’d been pretty good at it, too, once she found the sugar.

Now, Lisa and Frankie were poking at the wrapped gifts. He could just make out their voices through the glass.

“—Book,” Lisa was saying, primly setting down one wrapped square.

“Boring,” said Frankie. He was jostling a box so hard its contents rattled.

“Only because you can’t read,” said Lisa, sticking her tongue out at him.

“I can to,” said Frankie indignantly. “But I don’t, because it’s boring. I hope this is the truck I asked for.”

“If you keep shaking it, you’ll break it,” said Lisa. “Or wake up Dad.”

Frankie set the box down. “Hey, if they didn’t want us sneaking down here to look at the presents, they shouldn’t put them out the night before.”

Frank let out a low, huffing breath. It was almost a laugh—he remembered hearing those footsteps on the stairs, remembered Maria in the bathroom taking a shower while Frank sat on the bed. He remembered the jasmine scent of her lotion when she slipped into the covers beside him.

He watched as Lisa and Frankie tiptoed back up the stairs, leaving the presents in roughly the same shape as they’d found them. Frank almost pressed his nose to the window glass, his gaze following every movement until they were gone.

“They were good kids,” said Mr. Cloak quietly.

Frank couldn’t speak for a few moments. “Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, they were.” It took some time for him to look at the other man, to gather the shreds of his emotions and try to shove them into the hole where he usually kept such memories. “Why’d you bring me here?”

“Told you,” said Mr. Cloak. “Owed a favor. Hate old movies.”

“How,” said Frank.

The man waved his hand. “Magic. Or a delicate manipulation of time and space. All depends on who you ask. But, we don’t have time. Can’t linger.” He turned and strode down the driveway. Frank didn’t follow—he wanted to stay here, to remain wherever this place was, to bury himself in these memories.

But then world dropped out from under him a second time.

This time, Frank did not fall into a snowy street. Instead, he found himself floating in midair. Snow fell from his boots and landed at least ten stories down.

“Shit.” The curse was torn from his lips, lost to the cold wind. He expected to fall, to crash into the ground, but no such thing happened.

He was just floating.

“You really should have brought a heavier coat,” said Mr. Cloak.

Frank glared at the other man. “Next time I’m kidnapped by a Dickens-quoting wizard, I’ll try.”

“Hmm.” If Mr. Cloak was bothered by the acid in Frank’s tone, it didn’t show. He leaned forward and Frank realized they were both floating in front of an apartment window. “Well, look at that. Nice tree.”

Frank drew in a sharp breath. “This the past again?”

“Present,” said Mr. Cloak.

The apartment before him was clean and unfamiliar. There was indeed a small tree—it had been set atop a coffee table, its branches twined with lights. There were a few presents beneath it. And Curtis strode out of another room, dressed in pajamas. He looked as though he’d come out of the shower.

He looked good, Frank thought. And even if this probably was some kind of elaborate hallucination, he was glad that Curtis seemed to be doing well in it. He hadn’t seen Curt since… not for nearly a year. Not since Bill and that clusterfuck with Pilgrim and the kid. Curt had made it pretty clear that he was done with all of that, and Frank had stayed away.

Curtis knelt beside the tree. He gave his surroundings one furtive look before reaching into his pocket and removing a small, velvet box. He tucked it amidst the small tree’s branches, then stepped back. Smiled to himself. And then he let out a sigh.

“Engagement ring,” said Mr. Cloak, like he was narrating a film. “His girlfriend’s asleep in the bedroom right now.”

“Shit,” said Frank softly, but it was said in a wholly different tone than the first curse. This was wondering, a little wistful. “Didn’t know he was even seeing anyone.”

“You wouldn’t, would you?” said Mr. Cloak. His tone was neutral, but Frank still glanced at him sharply.

Curtis picked up his phone. He scrolled through it for a few moments, then brought it to his ear. Mr. Cloak snapped his fingers, and suddenly Frank could hear everything as clearly as if he’d been standing beside Curt.

“Hey, man,” said Curt quietly. “It’s me. Not even sure if you have this number anymore, but it’s the only one I’ve got so—yeah.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I hope you’re okay. Haven’t heard from you in a while. And your name hasn’t shown up in the obits, at least.” He attempted a short laugh. “Listen, I hope you’re good. Hope you’ve ditched this burner phone because you found a life somewhere. I’m—I’m getting engaged soon. Well, I hope I am. Gonna pop the question tomorrow morning. And I wish I could tell you in person. Wish you could grow that godawful beard again so my fiancé might not realize that I’ve got the Punisher as my best man.” He sighed. “Anyways, if you do get this message, stay safe.” He hung up, pressed the phone to his mouth for a moment, then turned and walked into the bedroom. The light flicked out.

Frank felt very cold—and it had little to do with the weather.

“You don’t have that phone anymore,” Mr. Cloak said, almost conversationally. “It was a burner you lost shortly after you cut ties with Mr. Hoyle.”

Frank looked down, then wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t like he was afraid of heights, but he’d never been dangled in midair before. “It’s better this way,” he said quietly. “I screwed up Curt’s last relationship, because he was there for me instead of her. I’m not gonna do that to him again.”

Mr. Cloak brushed a stray snowflake from his shoulder. “If that’s the story you want to tell yourself, all right. But we’ve got another stop to make.”

“Wait,” said Frank, but Mr. Cloak circled his hand once again.

They popped into a church.

Midnight mass.

And there was a rather familiar figure sitting in one of the pews, a white cane resting beside him.

“No,” said Frank, winding up. “I’m not—”

“Oops,” said Mr. Cloak. “Wrong stop.”

He waved his hand in the air.

This time, Frank fell onto a fire escape. His knees were going to hate him in the morning, if this weren’t some weird hallucination. “Can you stop that?” he growled.

Mr. Cloak looked unruffled. He was standing, hands folded behind his back. Frank struggled to rise, feeling a little dizzy, but then he saw where they’d appeared.

He knew this place. He’d been here a few times before, seen it from the inside.

“Karen,” he breathed, taking half a step closer to the window. The apartment was lit from within—not by a tree nor any decorations, but a laptop. Karen sat on her couch, long legs curled beneath her. Her hair was tied off in a ponytail and there was a pen tucked behind one ear. Scattered papers across her coffee table. “She’s working.”

“As a private investigator, yes,” said Mr. Cloak.

Frank inhaled. The air was sharp and cold against his mouth. “She’s not a journalist anymore?”

“She got fired,” said Mr. Cloak. “Protecting Daredevil’s identity. After she watched some of her coworkers die.”

“She _what?_ ”

“You really should look in on your friends sometime without a master of the mystical arts helping you,” said Mr. Cloak. “Email is a thing that exists. So is Google. Although you really should be using a different search engine these days.”

Frank didn’t dignify any of that with a reply. Instead, he gazed at Karen. She wore jeans and a sweater and while she looked beautiful, she didn’t look particularly rested. There were shadows beneath her eyes and frown lines etching themselves into her brow. She squinted at something on her computer, then began typing more quickly.

“She’s working,” said Frank, more quietly. “On Christmas Eve.”

It surprised him—he would have thought maybe she’d be out with friends or at a Christmas work party at the Bulletin. Or maybe she’d go home, wherever that was. But instead, she was all alone at her place, drinking a beer and typing on her laptop.

“You want to know a secret?” asked Mr. Cloak. Then before Frank could answer, the man said, “She asked her dad if she could visit over the holidays. He told her not to come.”

Frank’s jaw clenched. “Why?”

“They’re not close,” said Mr. Cloak. “I don’t actually know why. I just saw the text exchange.”

“So she’s here?” said Frank. “Just… working?”

“You honestly think you’re the only one working over the holidays? I saw what you did with those Swedish gang members, by the way. Nasty bit of work with that forklift.”

Frank was only half-listening, his focus on Karen. She set her laptop down, drained her beer, then rose and walked toward the bedroom. There were no gifts, no cards. Which would have been fine, really, if he hadn’t known that she’d tried to go home over the holidays and been turned away. It pissed him off. Karen, of all people, deserved some kind of break. A card, a warm meal—something. At least Curt had someone with him. But Karen was utterly alone.

The universe was not a fair place, he knew that. But somehow he thought that it might have been kinder to Karen than it was to him.

“All right,” said Mr. Cloak. “One last stop.”

And before Frank could protest, the wizard twirled his hand and then they were both standing in a graveyard.

“Oh, come on,” said Frank, kicking snow off his boots. ‘This isn’t even fucking original. You just pulled this from the book. You gonna kick me into a grave? Watch as flames try to come for me? Reveal yourself to be the grim reaper as a bulldog or some shit like that?”

“You watched the Mickey Mouse version of that film, didn’t you?” said Mr. Cloak, seemingly amused.

“I had kids,” said Frank. “‘Course I did.”

Mr. Cloak chuckled, then shook his head. “It’s not your grave.” Then he added, “Although it probably would be, in another few months. Give it time.” He set off and Frank reluctantly followed in his wake.

It was a pretty graveyard—snow-flecked branches overhead and old-fashioned headstones beneath. And it wasn’t any place that Frank recognized. Finally, Mr. Cloak came to a halt.

Frank looked down. And blinked.

_Penelope Page. Beloved mother and wife._

And the grave beside: _Kevin Page. Taken too soon._

Frank’s breath fogged into the night. It took a few moments to collect his racing thoughts.

He didn’t know the names of Karen’s family, but he could piece things together well enough. This would be Karen’s mother, by the look of things. And judging by the ominous sentiment on the second grave, Frank could guess at the other. “Brother?”

Mr. Cloak nodded. “You’re also not the only person working on Christmas Eve,” he said, “because you’re running from people you’ve lost.”

Snow fell softly on the ground. Frank reached down to brush the names clean, but his fingers passed right through. “You said this was the future,” he said.

“It is,” said Mr. Cloak.

And Frank finally, finally saw that they weren’t alone in the graveyard.

There was a figure sitting beneath a nearby tree. He hadn’t seen her because snow had covered her jacket and dark pants. Her blonde hair was damp, tucked mostly beneath a knitted hat. And her head was bowed.

“Karen,” said Frank quietly.

“This is next month,” said Mr. Cloak. “She came up here. Stayed in a hotel.”

“She’s here alone?” asked Frank.

Mr. Cloak shrugged. “Who else would come with her?”

Frank’s numb fingers curled into fists. He hated this—all of it. The sight of Karen sitting alone near the snowy graves; the fact she’d clearly been sitting there for some time; that she’d stayed in a hotel rather than with friends or family; that he was here and he couldn’t say a word because he was either some kind of ghost or this really was some kind of fever dream from being hit on the head by a Swedish mobster.

“I get it,” said Frank, through gritted teeth. “I’ve read the book. I know I’m supposed to change my ways, realize that I’m a goddamn idiot for staying away from them. But—but they’re both still alive, and that’s the point, yeah? They’re alive and they’re okay—”

“Those are two entirely separate things,” said Mr. Cloak. “I’d say yes to the former and,” he waggled one gloved hand, “maybe to the latter.”

“They’re all still breathing,” snarled Frank. “That’s all that matters, in the end.”

“Is it?” said Mr. Cloak.

That stopped Frank cold. He looked at Karen, then away. “I’m done here.”

Mr. Cloak looked as though he’d bitten into a piece of rotten fruit. “You’re a rather disappointing Scrooge, I have to say.”

“And you’re a shitty ghost,” said Frank. “So we’re even.”

Mr. Cloak waved one hand. At first Frank thought it might have been in annoyance, but then the world jerked again, and Frank fell into his apartment. 

He was alone. No weird wizard, no red cloak, no magic. Just an empty kitchen, dirty linoleum floor, and curtains drawn. Everything looked just as he’d left it. 

“If that was all a hallucination, fine,” he said aloud. “But if it wasn’t, I’m gonna find you, wizard.”

There was no answer.

Frank rose, yanked off his boots and went into his bathroom to take a shower. Either he was concussed and hallucinating, or he wasn’t. But he was still cold, and at least that he could fix.

One hot shower later, and he sat on his bed. It was some old futon, a ragged thing. And despite his heater being turned on, the air still made him shiver. His apartment was bad, he would admit that. But it had never been a home, merely a home base. A place to store guns and sleep on occasion.

He’d never felt the need to make it more than that.

He leaned his head back against the wall, gazing unseeingly into the distance beyond.

Everything was fine. His friends were fine. He was safe—for the moment. He should’ve been content with that.

He had been content with that. But he couldn’t help but remember Curt kneeling beside that small tree, placing the ring box among the branches. Or Karen alone, come to visit graves after the holidays. It stirred to life something empty and aching within him, a place he’d tried to bury.

“Fucking wizard,” he said aloud.

His lightbulb burned out at that exact moment.

* * *

When Frank awoke, the morning sunlight was bright and clear.

He rose, moving on autopilot as he dressed in clean clothes and went to make coffee. He opened his fridge to find… nothing.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then he did something he hadn’t in nearly a year: he acted on impulse.

Snatching up his coat, he pulled on his boots and strode out of his apartment. There was a grocery store nearby—one of those big box places that never closed. Frank grabbed a cart and found the ingredients for a roasted chicken, vegetables, and even a box of candy canes that was half-off. After he’d paid, he put the food in his truck and turned the key.

He wasn’t thinking, not really. He was letting his body do what it wanted, steer in a way that felt both wrong and somehow instinctual.

He drove through snow-plowed streets until he found the right one. Luckily there was plenty of parking and Frank hefted a grocery bag into each arm, kicking his door shut behind him.

Karen’s apartment building had a buzzer—and unlike his place, it wasn’t busted. He pressed the button for the right number, then waited.

It was a good full minute before Karen’s familiar voice fizzed out of the speaker. “Yes?”

The sound of her voice made his heartbeat pick up. “Hey.”

A pause. A rather long pause. Then, “Frank?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Can I—can I come up?”

This time the pause went on for an eternity. Then there was the snap of the front door unlocking and Frank reached for it. He still remembered walking up here for the first time; he hadn’t been sure she would be glad to see him then, either.

Her door was open and she stood there, in sweatpants and a t-shirt. It was the most casual he’d ever seen her. “I wake you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” She eyed him with something like wonder and distrust. “What are you doing here?”

“That first time,” he said. “You gave me money for food, when you thought I was homeless. Never really repaid the favor.” He nodded at her apartment behind her. “I thought—I mean. I was gonna make you dinner, if you wanted. If you didn’t have plans.” Abruptly, a wave of something like nausea went through him. He’d done this because of a stupid hallucination because that’s what it had to have been, and of course she’d have plans on Christmas—

“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t have plans.” She looked at him searchingly. “But I don’t believe for a minute that you’re here to repay me for past favors. You’ve had a year to do that. Frank, tell me why you’re here?”

He understood her hesitation, he truly did. The last time they met, he’d heard her offers and turned her down flat. He could’ve been with her all this time, and he hadn’t. She had every right to wonder at his abrupt presence in her life.

He was still kind of wondering, if he was honest with himself.

“I missed you,” he said. “And I didn’t want to be alone today.”

She rocked back a little, as if his honesty had startled her. Then she nodded, some of the cold draining from her eyes. When she smiled, it was soft and small and heartfelt. “Come in, Frank.”

He stepped inside.

* * *

A few months later, Frank found a picture in Karen’s desk. He’d been looking for a pen, because he’d been making lists of things he had to do for Curt’s bachelor weekend. But there, in Karen’s drawer, was a picture of him.

It was Mr. Cloak.

“Who’s this?” said Frank, pulling out the photo.

Karen looked up. She had been eating leftovers—takeout curry, from their date last night—at the table. “Oh, that? I met him a while back. Dr. Strange. He was trying to keep some building from being demolished and I helped him a little. Found out that the city councilman who’d been trying to reclaim that property was actually dirty and working for some shady people.”

“Dr. Strange,” repeated Frank. He set the picture down.

“Do you know him?” asked Karen, rising from her chair. She came to stand beside him.

“Yeah,” said Frank. “But you won’t believe me when I tell you how.”


End file.
